Matching
by RStiltskinned
Summary: Alternate ALW: Instead of dressing as Red Death, the Phantom dresses to match - and trick -Christine, who does not recognise him at the masked ball. COMPLETELY RE-WRITTEN WITH NEW ENDING (one-shot, tumblr prompt)


It was a magnificent ball, it really was. Thousands of candles filled the Opera Populaire with light; hundreds of guest milled about, their faces hidden by masks. It was a night of celebration; the air was filled with animated chatter and laughter which at times almost seemed to drown out the music; ladies in brightly coloured gowns danced with men who for once had forgone their usual white-and-black evening attire and were as colourful as their female companions.

Yes, it was truly a splendid Bal Masque, and yet Christine could not bring herself to enjoy it. She had looked forward to it initially; it had been so much fun when Raoul had taken her out to look at costumes. He had bought a very extravagant pink-and-purple gown for her, covered with silver stars, and a tiara and silver mask to match.

"You look like a princess of the stars, Little Lotte!" he had laughed, and she had laughed with him, for once carefree and simply happy.

But now, Christine was filled with dread. Not only was she going to have to face the crowds (which included the ever-hateful Carlotta), something which she had avoided since the chandelier incident – the rumours about her being the "opera ghost's" paramour had spread like wildfire among the gossip-hungry Parisians – but Christine was also afraid that _he_ might be here.

How could he not be? It was "his" opera house after all, as he had told her. And a masked ball was an ideal occasion for him to be out and about without being noticed.

Raoul still did not believe that the Phantom – her Angel – truly existed. He waved off her fears as bad dreams and silly fantasies. The managers had succeeded in convincing the public that both Buquet's death and the chandelier crash had been unfortunate accidents, and Raoul had apparently chosen to stick with that explanation as well. It had also been difficult for Christine to persuade Raoul to keep their engagement a secret for the time being; in the end, she had reasoned with him that it would be best to wait until the scandal of the Il Muto disaster had died down; and after all, she was a chorus girl and he a nobleman, so it was probably better to be as subtle as possible anyway. For several months now, she had been wearing her engagement ring on a chain around her neck.

At first, Raoul had agreed, but now that plenty of time had passed, he argued that the scandal was yesterday's news; and as for their different places within society, well, he did not care. "Christine, I love you," he had told her, holding her hands in his, his forget-me-not blue eyes full of sincerity. "I want to spend my life with you and I don't care what other people say."

Christine glanced at Raoul now, who looked as handsome as ever in his Hussar uniform and sighed. She loved Raoul with all her heart, but she wished he would not treat her like a child and take her a bit more seriously. She was not "Little Lotte" anymore, even though she wished she could simply turn into that carefree little girl again. This was one of the reasons why she enjoyed being with Raoul so much; in his company, she could forget about ghosts and angels and divas that treated her like garbage and could finally just _live_.

Raoul met her gaze and frowned. "You look so worried, Christine…do you still fear that the Phantom will come?" he asked with a teasing smile. Christine tried to look cross with him, but it was hard to do so when he looked so utterly dashing. She smiled back at him and gently rested her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Raoul. The room is so hot and crowded that it makes me feel a little dizzy. Could you be a dear and perhaps bring me a flute of champagne? I am sure it would steady my nerves." In truth, Christine only wished to have a moment to herself. She needed time to think. "Of course, my darling. I'll be right back." He pressed a quick kiss to her hand and then began to push his way through the crowd to fulfil her request.

Christine retreated to the very outskirts of the dance floor and managed to find a quiet corner behind a pillar. She took a deep breath and leaned against the cool stone.

Would he come? Was he perhaps already here? In a room full of masked people, he could have been anywhere, and the idea that the Phantom might be here this very moment sent nervous shivers down her back.

Phantom. She had never referred to him as such until she had seen him kill. Even after she had found out that he was not an angel, even after she had seen his horrifying face, he had still been her maestro. Not an angel, but a man. It had been a great shock indeed to have her illusions shattered in such a harsh manner. She wondered what would have happened if she had never pulled of his mask; he would have still been a man, but without having seen his face – and more importantly, without having experienced his terrible anger – who knew how their relationship might have progressed then? After all, she had to admit that she had felt drawn to him. But now, Christine could only see a murderer.

And yet, she could not bring herself to hate him. He had given her back her voice, after all; he had listened to her worries and tears. The fact that he had pretended to be an angel did not change that. As much as Christine was angered by the fact that he had deceived and manipulated her in this manner, she could also understand why her maestro had chosen to approach her in that way; she doubted that she would have trusted a masked stranger who offered her voice lessons.

She felt anger against her maestro, but also grief at his dark fate and something else that she could (and did not want) to name. That time before she had unmasked him and shattered is masterful illusion, when the only thing that had mattered was his divine voice, leading her and making her feel things she had never even dreamed of, still haunted her dreams.

Christine's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a male voice.

"Good evening, mademoiselle. Do you dislike the ball so much that you are hiding from it?" he teased. Christine looked up to find herself next to a tall gentleman in an elaborate costume. Feeling slightly annoyed, she raised her chin a little. "Perhaps I am hiding from intrusive strangers, monsieur", she replied. The man chuckled and raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. "I beg your forgiveness, mademoiselle. I did not mean to disturb you. I simply happened to notice that we seem to be wearing matching costumes". Studying his costume more closely, Christine realised he was right; they did match. He wore a most impressive cape of made of shimmering black silk; its inside was dark purple, and Christine could just make out the tiny sliver stars embroidered on the expensive fabric. Around his shoulders there were more stars, as were there on the underside of his black felt hat, which also sported a large display of magenta-coloured feathers. His mask was relatively simple in comparison; it was black and covered almost all of his face except for a part of his bottom jaw.

The stranger extended a gloved hand to lightly grasp Christine's – who had already held it out almost instinctively - and bowed his head over it, stopping only millimetres above her skin. She could feel his warm breath tickling her and blushed. The man stood upright again and mustered Christine. "You look enchanting, mademoiselle, if I may say so. May I ask for the next dance?" His voice made her body tingle in a familiar way, and for one second, she almost thought he sounded like…but no, it couldn't be.

"I-I'm sorry, monsieur. I am flattered, but I am here with an escort who has just gone to get me something to drink, and it would be terribly rude of me to run off and dance with another man instead of waiting for him." Christine stammered. The man smiled and took a step closer to her; she took a step back, again driven by instinct.

"I think your escort will forgive you, mademoiselle; I am sure no man could ever bear a grudge against such a beautiful woman." And with that, he offered his hand to her.

Christine bit her lip; Raoul was nowhere to be seen and she supposed one dance could do no harm; she briefly thought of what the people might say if they saw her dancing with a man in a costume matching hers – matching costumes usually signified some form of intimate relationship. In fact, Raoul had at first wanted to buy an outfit similar to the one this stranger now wore. She supposed the man must have bought it in the same shop they had been to.

He was still waiting for her response, and after another moment of hesitation, Christine took his hand and let him lead her onto the dance floor. The orchestra was playing a waltz, and the stranger spun Christine about in slow, elegant circles; he was a marvellous dancer, moving with unhurried grace, sleek as a cat. They made quite the pair, the dark, imposing figure in the black cloak and the ethereal beauty in pink and silver. The man was of slender build and quite tall; Christine's head barely reached his shoulder. She studied what little she could see of her partner's face; his visible bottom lip seemed unusually plump for a man; and the eyes that gazed down at her through the holes in the mask were dark – almost black.

"You are a very good dancer, monsieur," Christine remarked nervously just as they waltzed their way past Monsieur Andre, who was dancing – or at least attempting to do so – with none other than La Carlotta, who sent a dirty look towards Christine as she saw her.

"I can only return the compliment, mademoiselle; you move with such beautiful grace." Again, his voice had a physical reaction on Christine; she shivered and looked into his eyes again.

Black eyes.

A costume to match hers.

And that voice…

Suddenly, somebody bumped into them, and the stranger's mask shifted a little; Christine caught a brief glimpse of a twisted upper lip.

She gasped. It was him!

"You – it is you! Oh, _my God_….!"

His eyes flashed with panic and then anger; he gripped her arm and swiftly led her away from the dancers and back again behind the pillar where he had first found her. Christine was too shocked to react; she simply stared at him in surprise, hundreds of emotions fighting for dominance inside her conflicted heart. When they were hidden from view, he let go of her, and Christine at last found her voice again.

"How – how dare you! If I had known – I would never have – I…!"

He sighed. "You would not have talked to me, let alone danced with me. In fact, you probably would have screamed and run from me. That seems to be a pattern with us, does it not?" he snapped. Christine was taken aback for one moment, but quickly recovered and shot right back.

"Don't you dare make this about you! You deceived me, used my father's story to manipulate me and treated me as if I was your possession! You made it look as if I had a part in your plots, thereby ruining my reputation! You – you…" Christine had worked herself into a rage now, and Erik seemed a little surprised. "You murdered Buquet! You dropped the chandelier, for God's sake! And yet, you dare to approach me now and attempt to deceive me again! Tell me, _angel_," she spat, "what would you have done if I had not noticed your little charade? Would you have abducted me again? Locked me away someplace where I can never escape? I-I…What do you want from me?" The last part came out as a sob. The months of nightmares had taken its toll on Christine, and it was beginning to show; tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"I don't even know your name," she said, sounding lost. Her anger had passed and left her exhausted and tired. She looked up at him, her eyes lacking their usual spark, and was surprised to see that his eyes no longer held the cold glare they had before. If anything, he looked…almost guilty.

"Christine;" he breathed. "Christine…"

For a moment, there was awkward silence between them. Then, her maestro cleared his throat and spoke to her.

"I am Erik."

She stared at him in surprise. Erik. The phantom, her angel, was simply Erik. Knowing his name suddenly made him more human, more tangible; and for a moment, she imagined what it might have been like if Erik had approached her in a more conventional manner. They did share a passion for music, and he, despite his sometimes overly strict methods, had been a great teacher as well as a confidante to her. A friend, even.

"Erik…," she whispered. There was a sudden vulnerability in his eyes, as if by giving her his name he had once and for all exposed himself as being a mortal man of flesh and blood and now feared that she would destroy him. He took one hesitant step towards her. This time, she stayed where she was.

"Please believe me when I say that I never meant to harm you, Christine. I-I…" He faltered. "When I heard you sing, I thought only of the glorious instrument that I could shape your voice into if I was given the chance. But how could I approach you? I, a strange man who wears a mask to hide his monstrous face? But then I overheard you telling little Giry about the Angel of Music one day, and I…"He broke off and averted his gaze from her. "I longed only to teach you, nothing more than that. But then I saw you with that boy and I realised that you were more to me than a pupil. In fact, I'd known for a long time; seeing you with de Chagny just forced me admit it to myself."

Christine stared at him with wide eyes. Thousands of questions were on her mind, but she could not summon the power to voice any of them.

"I am yours, Christine. Yours to love, and yours to command. I cannot help but want you."

Christine blinked quickly. "But Buquet...the chandelier…why, Erik?"

Erik sighed and fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves. "Buquet knew too much, and he was annoying. As for the chandelier…these two managers and their precious patron," his voice was laced with venom at the mention of Raoul, "had better learn their place. This is _my_ opera house, and I alone shall decide who sings upon its stage!" His eyes were full of anger again. He came even closer, and Christine gulped. Erik's eyes suddenly dropped to her chest, and Christine froze.

_The ring. He had seen the ring_.

Erik's eyes burned with hatred. His hand shot up and grasped the ring; with a sharp tug, he ripped it from her. Christine gave a small cry of protest and fear. Without warning, Erik brought up both of his arms and pinned her to the stone column. His face came so close to hers that she could feel his breath. She shivered.

_"__I gave you your voice. I gave you my music,"_ he hissed into her ear. Then his voice dropped, and her body showed the strangest response to this; she felt a warm, tingling sensation in her stomach.

"I have finished my opera, you know," he purred. "Don Juan Triumphant is complete, and I shall make sure that the managers will put it on stage. And you, my dear, you shall have the leading role. You shall be my Aminta."

Christine was shaking badly now. "I don't want it," she hissed. "I won't sing."

Erik let out a dark chuckle. "Oh, but you will, my dear. Trust me, _you will_." His mouth was now dangerously close to her neck, and Christine felt certain that he could sense her hammering pulse. His hands hand left the pillar and traced along her waist. Christine gasped – both in outrage and because of the tingling sensation in her stomach grew stronger.

Suddenly, his hands and mouth were gone. He smirked at her.

"Then again, Aminta is meant to be seductive and alluring. Judging by the way you just reacted, I have the feeling that you may lack the, shall we say, _physical understanding_ needed for the role."

Christine's mouth fell open in indignation. How dare he! That utter…! First the whole business of manipulating her, and now this….!

Christine glared at Erik. "Fine! You know what? Do whatever you please! Threaten the managers, drop chandeliers; but do not think for one moment, monsieur, that you can corrupt my mind once again! Carlotta can have the role for all that I care! And now, monsieur, I shall go and look for my _fiancé_. Good day!"

And with that, Christine tried to push her way past Erik and go to look for Raoul, but Erik stopped her.

"If you think I will allow that boy to steal you away from me, you are very much mistaken. The bond we share runs far more deeply than any childish promise you have given to him."

Christine's eyes narrowed with anger. "I do not belong to you. Neither do I belong to him. But it is him that I chose, and nothing you do or say will ever change that!" she spat.

Erik's dark eyes glittered with malice, and his hand tightened painfully around her arm. "We shall see about that, Christine, we shall see. Perhaps I will need to use more persuasive methods to show you that you are making the wrong choice", he said softly, the threat obvious in his tone. Before she could react, he practically threw her into the crowd of dancers; by the time she had disentangled herself and looked behind the pillar, he had vanished, leaving her with a cold feeling of dread in her stomach.

Suddenly, she felt somebody touch her arm and jumped. She looked up and directly into Raoul's eyes.

"Christine, my dear, are you alright? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Christine nearly broke into a hysterical laugh at that. Sensing her distress, Raoul drew her close, and she buried her face in his chest. She would try to explain to him later, to make him finally believe. She had to, or else he would be in as much danger as she was – maybe even more.

But most of all, she had to be strong; otherwise, she would not survive this madness. She had to lay her past and her angel to rest. Perhaps it was time for a visit to the graveyard.


End file.
